The Eyes Have It
by BeautifulFiction
Summary: "One flick of ever-changing eyes – blue, green, silver – and the world has no secrets." A study of what a variety of Sherlock characters see, and what they observe. Five 221bs. Sort of Post Reichenbach


**Warning: language, and some sort of spoilers for Reichenbach.**

_A/N: This thing bit me, hard, and i could not resist a go at the 221b format. This is my first effort at 221Bs, and why do one when you can do five? For those who aren't aware, a 221B is a piece of work made up of 221 word, the last of which ends in "B"._

Written in an hour of key hammering and skimmed through quick. Let me know of any issues?

B xxx

P.s. I'm also on tumblr these days at beautifulfic . tumblr . com (take out the spaces!) Add me for a handy dandy ask box, excerpts and all that jazz.

* * *

**The Eyes Have It**

Her hazel eyes see a lot of the world, more than most would think. She remembers the flare of the bombs: the rubble and the wretched. She is just a child when the sirens wail, but she survives and life moves on.

The years flicker by, some fast and bright, others dull and overcast. Violence casts its shadow, but she likes to think she still shines through. He gets her out of it, of course, the darkness of domestic abuse. Strange that one so shadowed can show her the way back out into the light, but he did it with shining eyes and a wary smile.

One husband down, a bad man for all her love, and she is free again.

She knows what she looks like to others. One of the ensemble cast, maybe, always there in the background, but it's her existence, and she would rather watch the world go by than play a leading role.

Now Mrs Hudson looks upon the faded wallpaper, the narrow hallways and the damn flat that's still too damp, and she would not trade it for the world. No, she would not have missed the chance to witness this.

"Not your housekeeper" has become her mantra as they tear in and out, two halves of a perfect whole.

John and Sherlock.

Her boys.

* * *

A grim, grey gaze takes in everything, the clean scan of a room and London's sprawling streets. The CCTV extends his view, granting him dominion. He works hard to make sure nothing remains unseen. A "minor position" in the British government offers many rewards, and Mycroft is sure to put them to good use.

He orchestrates the rise and fall of civilisation from behind q desk, all guile and guise. The illusion of democracy remains, a shallow veil to deceive the masses while behind it all the real work unfolds like a magician's greatest prestige. A deft touch here, a murmur there, and it all falls into place.

Well, almost all.

He says it was for Queen and country, but that was never his true motivation. No, there are other concerns, closer to heart and hearth and home – all concepts that he declines to acknowledge but considers worthy all the same.

He has never been able to make Sherlock fit in, despite his best efforts. He hints and he nudges, talks of masks and manners and receives nothing but mockery for his trouble.

So instead he stands back and he sculpts, changing this and that until, slowly, the world begins to shape itself, fitting every need and whim of the one who is always on his mind.

His brother.

* * *

God, but he has seen too much. Every hour of overtime he works, every criminal that slips his grasp he swears his eyes get darker. Warm chocolate turning the colour of mud: foul, foetid and underlined by darkening shadows. He can see it creeping up on him, slowly but surely, that twisted bitterness rots away at his core until he almost doesn't care any more.

Almost.

Then he meets a man, not much more than a kid really, off his head and talking a mile-a-minute, and just like that, the case is solved. God, the bloke is a genius, but there's a downward spiral there. Self destruction with no real cause.

An overdose and a promise, that's what it takes, but even while he's telling the idiot to get clean for the crime scenes, he knows it is more of a desperate plea than an ultimatum. Greg Lestrade needs this man to help him clean up the world, before they're all to sunk in the shit to care.

His team complain, of course they do, but time and again he is there in that dramatic coat, all arrogance and answers, the truth flowing from him like words from God himself.

Sherlock Homes might be as smug as he is awkward, but Greg can look beyond all that.

What he sees? It's brilliance.

* * *

Blue eyes see blood soaking into the desert, sucked away by the parched vampire that is Afghanistan. Crimson writes his life story, and the ink spills from his veins as a bullet finds him. He is robbed, not of possessions but of purpose, and sent home like a tired horse put out to pasture.

The next time his life comes into focus it's in the lab at Bart's, where a madman reads his truths with the flash of a gaze. The last piece falls into place. Despondency is gone, cast off with the limp and cane, and he is himself again. Not a shadow-man, but more and most and best.

John Watson races after, half a step behind and always ready. He follows Sherlock blindly, relishing the dance of adrenaline and the leaping, humming tune of joy where his heart used to be, living every moment like it might be his last.

But he is not the one to die.

Blood on London's pavement, and he is in pieces once more. They say his friend was a fraud and a liar, he heard it himself from a dead man's lips. He limps through his days again, his eyes fixed on the ground, but if anyone asks about Sherlock Holmes, he raises his head and, with hard soldier eyes, says:

'I believe.'

* * *

A woman's desperation, a brother's love, the detective inspector looking for hope and the doctor searching for someone to save. One flick of ever-changing eyes – blue, green, silver – and the world has no secrets.

Sherlock sees everything.

Until he blinks and misses the final twist – the sting in the fairytale. _I__owe__you__a__fall_.

He was not meant to be left on this edge, seeing a vast expanse of metropolis and the distant pavement. John, head thrown up to the sky and tears in his voice as Sherlock weeps and stammers and wonders if this really is goodbye.

London lurches, and he succumbs.

It is a blindness, this little death, this falsity of the grave. He must close his eyes and turn away, because there is work to be done. So he slaves and toils and ignores the wash of blood on his hands. It is a price, and he will pay.

Then one day, with little fanfare, it is done. Something leaves him in that moment: a burden he carried without thought, and his feet turn him towards home.

Shoes tapping, stride solid and steady as London's night welcomes him in its light-pocked furls. He breathes in the air and all that is his city until at last, he stops.

221 and a door.

He's back.


End file.
